


And If That Diamond Ring Turns Brass

by Vain



Series: Broken Lullabies [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mental Coercion, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-17
Updated: 2003-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vain/pseuds/Vain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Broken Lullabies Arch - Line C; sequel to "Don't Say a Word": Oblivious, the world continues to spin and Severus comes to terms with himself, what he's done, and the intractable future. SS/HP Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And If That Mocking Bird Don't Sing

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> **_And If that Diamond Ring Turns Brass_**  
>  ~ Broken Lullabies Arch; Line C ~  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 03.08 - 06.15.2003  
> __________________________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  ** _Warnings_** : HARD **R** Rating. AU, slash, angst, language, and Sev being generally creepy. What else do I write about? No sex, though. ;-) Footnotes and definitions are at the end of each chapter. Also, I don't speak Italian. God bless translations sites. If YOU speak Italian, please overlook my no doubt glaring and painfulors.ors. ^^;;; Poor Sev . . .
> 
>  **Continuity:** This is the 3rd in the Broken Lullabies Arch and occurs after _Hush, Little Baby_ and _Don't Say A Word_.
> 
>  **Notes:** Special thanks you's are extended to **_Apapazukamori_** for beta-ing.
> 
>  
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Don't flame me.** By fic number three that gets a bit redundant, don't you think?

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**Stanza One:  
And If That Mocking Bird Don't Sing**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**_"Midway in our life's journey, I found myself  
In dark woods, the right road lost."_**  
The Inferno  
Dante

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


_"T_ rust me."

_"Trust me, Harry,"_ I imagine he said that night, knowing that he was the next to last person in the world that you should ever trust. The last person being me, of course.

I lift an eyebrow at him, a silent inquiry as to his mental health. Trust him? Hardly. I don't even trust myself anymore. Not near those gem-like eyes, raven hair—

"I don't like it," I grate out, shaking my head to clear it of you. You. Always, always, _always_ **you**.

Whelp. Child. Insufferable, annoying child.

Gorgeous.

He raises his hands in that irritatingly disarming manner of his and I have a sudden urge to throw that silly bowl of lemon drops at his head. I despise him. I loathe this whole situation.

Your fault.

"Severus," he begins, daring to think he can placate my anxiet eas easily. 

I stand. "I don't trust him!"

"Is that really why you don't want to work with him?"

Yes, I don't trust him. No, that's all there is to it. I'm not sure anymore. "Of course it is!" I hiss. "Have you forgotten? He tried to kill me!"

"A childhood prank, Severus," he chides with steel-laden mildness. He simply _has_ to practice that tone of voice. 

It's cool in his office, but I'm hot and I tug on the collar of my stone black turtleneck, making sure to continue glaring at a spot just over his shoulder. Not at him. I've found that I'm unable to look people in the eyes these days.

I don't speak. I don't remind him that I still bear the scars from that fool's "prank." I don't mention that if Potter—perfect, golden James Potter in all his smug glory—had arrived even three seconds later I'd have been bitten. I'd have died. Or worse. I could have ended up like that animal, Lupin. I don't mention that Sirius was laughing. 

He knows already.

But I can't find it in me to be angry with him for it. I suppose I've lost the right to that.

Would you have laughed? I like to think that you'd have been angry—cried out for me.

_Stop._

"You _did_ agree to try and work together," Albus reminds me. He—or rather the air above his shoulder—seems to be impervious to my glare. How irritating.

_Yes, we did. Because_ you _threatened us._ Aloud I say, "Now is hardly the time to deal with these . . . issues." Especially not if he catches me drooling over you, his perfect godson.

Although, come to think of it, the look on his face would certainly be entertaining.

Another dismissive wave. I briefly entertain the idea of chopping off his arms and beating him with them. While the imagery is amusing, I doubt I'd be able to harm a hair on him before he tossed me about like a house-elf making salad. Still, the thought is comforting.

"It's hardly as though you two will be working in close contact," he continues, unaware that I'm fantasg abg about his painful death. Or perhaps he knows and finds it less unsettling than my imagination's more recent . . . interests. "He'll only be here for a day or two. That's all that's safe. He'll see Harry—" I cringe imperceptibly and my heart skips a beat " come gyou you what you need for the potions, and then be off again. Really, all you need to do is collect a blood sample."

Smug bastard.

I don't even know who I'm insulting anymore.

"Lemon drop?" he asks for the fourth time since he summoned me.

I sneer. "No." 

He smiles, his blue eyes twinkling maddeningly. The old fox.

Still, I can't say that the idea of bleeding Black doesn't appeal to me. 

I chuckle silently. You'd disapprove.

"Fine. It will take me two weeks to brew the foundation potions properly and allow them to set, though."

"Of course. After you've taken his blood, you can have Harry owl the results to him with the next letter he sends."

Bastard. Smug, annoying, omniscient bastard.

"He'll be in the Friday after next, sometime in the evening. I trust you'll have all you need by then?"

I nod, already tallying up the necessary ingredients in my head. Subringor[i] and Verus Vultus[ii] are extremely difficult and extremely illegal transformation potions. While their ingredients were similar to polyjuice, the process is much more intensive and the results much more extreme. Polyjuice only allows one to mimic another's physical appearance for an hour, but Subringor creates an entirely new and unique body based on the subject—one that remains until Verus Vultus is taken.

The transformations are extremely painful and if either potion is off in the slightest, it can result in horrible disfigurement and, most likely, an extraordinarily unpleasant death. Very few can accomplthe the task, hence the Ministry's ban. Also, many of the ingredients are illegal and the Subringor potion takes a considerable amount of Dark Magic to make.

It's been years since I've tried my hand at either potion. I find myself suddenly relishing  
the challenge. Albus, no doubt, had planned some reaction of the sort.

I stand and turn towards the door, ready to prepare for this weekend's work immediately, when the old wizard's voice suddenly stops me. 

"Sirius need not know about anything, Severus. I trust you to be . . . discreet . . ."

I freeze for an instant, certain that he really can read minds. And Merlin help me if he's known what's been on mine recently. But there's nothing I can say that won't damn me further. Besides, so long as _you're_ not around, I can control myself just fine. Everything is just fine. 

And at the thought of you—soft skin, trembling pleas—the oldiliailiar ache is back along with all the memories that I should never have acquired and refuse to surrender. Angel. Sweet panting breaths, shimmering eyes magnified by tears, and that _mouth_ . . . 

I flee the office, hair in my eyes. I won't give into the urge to turn around to see the look on Albus's face. I won't. I won't. I—

_Oooph!_

I . . . am on the floor? With someone on—

Oh. Green eyes. Black hair. Sunshine, and sweet wind, and soft skin over hard, maturing muscle—

Deep breath.

"Um . Sir Sir . . .?"

Oh, Merlin, that _mouth_ . . . Sir? Oh. Arms. Let go.

And how the hell did my right hand get tangled in that hair?

Right. Arms. Are you staring? "Potter!!"

You jump, lithe body jerking atop mine. Little pinpricks of sensation explode throughout my body. 

Brat.

**_"Get off me, Potter!!"_ **

You squeak and I have the sudden urge to tear your robes off those slowly broadening shoulders. Expose that ivory skin. Watch those wide child's eyes grow impossibly larger. Taste you. Drink you in. Perfect. 

But you move. Somehow managing to make my eyes want to roll up into my head, but movement nonetheless. I push myself to my feet and then the guilt hits. Guilt and the fiery, intoxicating taste of your reluctant kisses, the soft vibration of you whimpering beneath me and—

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for assaulting a teacher!"

Those ewidewiden and you retreat. Go away, child. Go away! Those pale, wet lips part in an "o" shape to argue, to protest, to no doubt infuriate me, but I'm gone. Past those lips, past those eyes . . . Merlin.

Memories.

_"Professor!! Professor!! . . . PLEASE!!!"_

Heat.

Think potions. Think classes. Think of anything but how unbelievably beautiful you are when you cry.

But I can't.

I want. 

And it aches inside.

  


***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


It isn't until I'm in my private lab that I release a shuddering, painful breath and realize that my rightd isd is closed in a fist around several ebony strands. I force my fist open and feel the lightlky lky strands fall down to the table. It's your hair. It couldn't be anyone else's—no one else's would cling to me like that. No one else's would feel like dry ice in my hand.

Breathe. 

Don't think.

Baby. Angel. Child. Fool.

My Fool.

Don't think.

You know nothing.

Don't think. Breathe. Stop shaking. Stop . . . needing . . . _that_.

Just toss the hairs out. They're nothing, really. Trash.

But what would it hurt?

To watch? To touch you? To taste you? Just once more? 

_Harry . . ._

Would you mind if you never know?

. . . . . . . . . . . You don't reply.

Instead, I work. I don't think about possibilities anymore. I've out grown such frivolous things. But that does nothing to still the itching beneath my skin. The needing you. So I work.

And I imagine that you'd approve.

My skin crawls as though small points of light are darting beneath it. Spring water. Pixie wings. Boomslang skin. Firefly tails. It all blurs together as I mix, pour, dice, grind, and stir. More and more. One after the other. Fresh blood red rose petals. 

Just like—

Focus.

I lose myself in the rhythm.

It takes me over three hours to get the foundations for what will become the Subringor and Verus Vultus potions prepared. Now all I can do is wait for Black's blood. Once I have that, the mixture will be divided and boiled, the blood will be added and then additional spells and ingredients will be added to each potion to differentiate it from the other. The foundation must ferment for at least 14 days. Of course, if it sets for longer, it won't harm anything; it's only after the blood is added that time becomes a factor. Human blood decays and losses its magical properties frightfully fast once outside the body—particular when added to fresh red or white rose petals. The energies are in opposition and tend to nullify one another after a certain point in time.

I've been considering running some experiments on hybrid roses to see the affects.

I close my books begin to clean up, stubbornly avoiding lng ang at those five thick, dark hairs laying on the table. I finish all too soon. Books away. Cauldrons cleaned. Jars of foundation potion stashed in a dark storage room. Nothing but me, a clean lab, those damning hairs, and, tucked away in the back corner, a large, seemingly innocuous black iron cauldron with a round wooden lid over it. It's full of the Mostrilo[iii] Potion that I made three weeks ago dura fra frenzied attempt to escape your pale, persistent memory. 

_"PLEASE!!!"_

Poppy never had so many healing and anti-inflammatory potions in stock. 

But this? I should never have brewed it. I should have poured it out. Albus would be so disappointed.

"I didn't take them on purpose." But you aren't here to hear me. "I didn't plan this. How was I supposed to know?" I pause, half expecting you to answer. Half expecting you to be sitting in the corner in that damned cloak, watching me. Waiting for me to slip up. Waiting for me to do what I've been considering doing since I found myself on the floor and staring up into those lush green eyes, hand gripping the black bird's nest that you pass off as hair.

Waiting for me.

Are you?

_"Art."_

. . . 

You don't respond.

But would it hurt anything? Just this once? I've been so good. The potion only works once.

I take a deep steadying breath and lean down to press my hot forehead against the cool stone table. A strange noise creeps up the back of my throat. I swallow it.

Fuck it. 

I'm doing it. I want it and it won't hurt anything.

And I won't feel guilty. It doesn't matter if no one knows. It's not bad— _wrong_ —if no one knows.

_That_ philosophy I know you'd approve of.

And I won't feel bad.

And I am going to steadfastly ignore the tingle on my left forearm and the little voice that reminds met tht things have a tendency to go poorly when I let my heart rule over what my head should decide. 

But there's nothing to decide because there's nothing wrong. And I'm standing over the suddenly uncovered potion. And I tell myself that this is okay as I stare into the pitch-black liquid in the waist-high cauldron. A single strand of black hair slices into my palm.

For the love of God, Severus, _breathe_.

I suddenly know what all my first years feel like on the first day of class. It's not a feeling I  
particularly relish.

I stare at the dark surface of the cauldron until the trembling passes. The potion is one of my own creations. As far as I know, no one else in the world knows that it exists—not the Dark Lord and certainly not Dumbledore. The Slytherin in me demands that I keep certain secrets. The spy in me approves. 

It was an accident, actually. After the fall of Rome there evolved a dangerous predecessor to Apparating that involved tearing minute holes in space and stepping through them to come out in a separate place. In the discord following the collapse of one of the strongest wizarding governments that world has ever known, there was a plethora of dangerous, experimental, malicious, and outright stupid enchantments floating around. Some of them were committed to papyrus, but thousands of spells, hexes, and enchantments were lost. I had the fortune of discovering a crude book from 1196AD in the sub library of Snape Manor over the summer break of my sixth year.

It contained secrets that I hadn't even dreamed of at the age of sixteen and Dark Magic enough to make Lucius Malfoy envy me for years. It was the promise of that power that lured the Malfoy heir to my bed in seventh year. It was me that kept him coming back for more until he fell in love with Narcissa. 

Outside of power and Lucius, Mostrilo Potion was one of the gifts that those wrinkled bits of reed paper bestowed upon me. The spell required that the caster imbibe certain ingredients to allow them to pass safely through the area between space, effectively removing the person from space itself. Unfortunately, prolonged expose caused all my test subjects to . . . vanish. They were still there, darting between spfromfrom place to place, but they were also . . . gone . . . same time . . . Almost as though they couldn't fully materialize again. It was most distur to to periodically feel a fat, furry invisible rat dash across your feet at night. Mother was furious. Eventually they either vanished entirely from this realm, went to another place permanently, or died. I was never able to find out which.

Mostrilo is a combination of the ingredients from the book and some of my own additions, making it something wholly unique. I have little desire to vanish into the unknown regions of space, so my potion creates the tear within the cauldron. Aloe to soothe the skin. Dried, crushed silverfish for invisibility. Mistletoe to enhance sensation on the user's part. Melted beeswax to allow me to interact with the environment on the other side of the portal. 

The only remaining ingredient is something to tether the portal to; someplace to open it. Your hair. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, this will bind the portal to you. Wherever you go, my little gateway will follow. It will stay open until the last bit of your hair dissolves and the portal loses its tether. And all I'll have to do is reach into it to touch you. 

The mere idea makes small ripples of pleasure slide up and down my spine. I wonder where you are.

I hover anxiously over the cauldron, indecisive. A touch. Such a small thing to want—to need.

I'm starting to think that I'm overanalyzing this. Perhaps I should have allowed myself to be placed in Ravenclaw. 

I place my leftd ond on the edge of the cauldron and the cold, hard metal steadies me quiets the pounding in chest. I close my eyes and try to remember the words that will open the gate and hopefully bring me some relief from the fire burning under my skin.

The spell is also my own. I choose my mother's tongue—Italian—for the focus words. Really, what most students fail to recognize about magic is that the words merely serve to direct energy; the more complex the energy, the more complex the words to the spells. Very few people can cast silent spells; as far as I know, only Dumbledore and Helga Hufflepuff have completely mastered it. Most wizards are too attached to the physical and vocal experience of ideas rather than the concepts themselves.

I have absolutely no talent for silent complicated spells. It's important to recognize one's limitations.

_"Indichimi che gli occhi di miniera possono vedere. Indichimi che gli orecchi della miniera possono sentirsi. Indichimi che la linguetta della miniera può avere un sapore. Indichimi che i labbri della miniera possono parlare. Sigilli i suoi occhi, naso e bocca. Mostrimi il miei propri. Mostrimi—"_ I stumble as my throat tightens painfully "—Harry Potter."[iv]

The calm surface of the potion begins to swirl immediately after one of your hairs touches it and then begins to roil violently. The heavy cauldron shakes, metal feet tapping in a wild staccato on the stone floor. The surface stills abruptly with a slight, anti-climactic cracking sound and immediately turns to a thick, viscous fluid so silver it looks like glass. Then a swirl like smoke slides over the surface, slowly thickening until a heavy grayish-red cloud floats just over the cauldron. I hold my breath, feeling strangely light-headed. It occurs to me on some odd, abstract level that it the potion's failed and may very well explode, but as the mist begins to clear and reveal the surface of the liquid, the thought is distant and entirely unimportant.

And then I see you. The air leaps from my lungs with a strange hacking sound.

You're asleep. Curled up in bed, garishly Gryffindor red comforter swaddled around you, making you look smaller than you really are. Your eyes are closed, long feminine lashes casting invisible shadows on pale skin. I can barely choke back the moan that rises in my throat. You roll over and mutter something sluggishly unintelligible under your breath.

So.

Absolutely.

_Perfect_.

My own personal incubus.

I touch the silver gel-like liquid and shiver as my hand slips through the icy substance. I can't see it materialize on the other side, but I can feel the ice cold of the potion envelop me as I reach through the small fold in space I've created in my cauldron. 

My grip on caulcauldron tightens as my invisible right hand ghosts down the center of your chest, sliding down between pert nipples to the flat, subtly defined stomach muscles that clench and unclench beneath my touch as your back arches slightly. A moan slips through my lips and I flatten my palm to touch every possible inch of you. I want to reach all the way into the portal, lie down beside you, and swallow you whole.

You gasp as one of my wandering fingers slips into the gentle dip of your bellybutton. What are you thinking? I want you to wake up—I want to see the lust, the fear and confusion swirl in those eyes of yours as you feel my ghost hands slide down your belly and into the low-slung waistband of your soft, ivy green boxers. Pale lips part and your breathing becomes short and gasped.

Flawless . . .

Merlin, I wish I could cover that mouth with my own.

Moan for me, Harry. Cry out. Beg. Please.

So pale. So beautiful.

My hand slips beneath the lip of your shorts, the tips of my fingers coming in contact with the crisp black curls I remember so well. You gasp. The sound makes something in me melt. And I suddenly hate myself. Something like a sob struggles out of my tightened throat as my hand slides down, unable to withdraw. My grip on the cauldron tightens painfully and I jerk back slightly, desperately wanting to pull away, get my hand out of this horrid cauldron, and go take cold showers until I either drown or die of shame. But I so desperately want to keep going, reach that firm, promised goal, so well remembered and so deliciously damning that I can actually feel my mouth water.

Your hips twitch spasmodically beneath my hand and you toss your head. Tears fill my eyes and I can't look away.

Please stop, Harry.

Oh, Merlin's own blood, **_stop_**.

Lips part and the sight inspires so many—too many—feelings for my atrophied heart to handle. I jerk like leaf in a windstorm.

You moan.

Dear, Gods . . . Those wondrous, scintillating lips . . .

"Cho . . ."

I freeze. . . . Cho . . .?

I can't move.

"Mmmmmmm . . ."

My mind swirls, desperately trying to provide the name "Cho" with a face. My fingers burn as they curl into a fist in the thick nest of your dark hair. You whimper as several strands get caught between the digits, tugging painfully at the hyper sensitive skin below.

Warmth runs through at the sound and I can't help but murmur your name. "Harry."

"Mmmmm . . ." 

My fingers uncurl and I lean forward over the cauldron for more leverage, the tips of my hair almost touching the surface of the potion and the cold metal digging cruelly into my stomach and hipbone. My hand slides down just a bit farther . . .

"Oh!" Narrow hips buck and I spare a moment to wonder if you sleep with Silencing Charms.

You're panting. No self control at all. You're positively disgusting.

"Cho!!" 

And I suddenly find myself staring into a wide pair of round green eyes. And I know somehow you can see me.

My hand jerks back right as you sit up, my right elbow banging painfully into the edge of cauldron. Dull resonating waves of pain lace up my arm as I stumble awkwardly back, my heel catching on something soft. I hear myself gasp.

And I'm aware of falling backwards, aware that the floor is rising up to meet me and I'm far, far too close to the wall, but perversely all I can see is a charcoal black skull and serpent etched with almost romantic clarity on my white skin. Perfect black on washed out white—on me. But whatever irony or greater meaning there is behind that eludes me as my head hits the wall with a sickening crack and everything is swallowed by blissful, consuming darkness.

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


[i] **Subringor** (Latin) - _v._ To make a face  
[ii] **Verus Vultus** (Latin) - True Face  
[iii] **Mostrilo** (Italian) - Show Me  
[iv] **Indichimi che gli occhi di miniera possono vedere. Indichimi che gli orecchi della miniera possono sentirsi. Indichimi che la linguetta della miniera può avere un sapore. Indichimi che i labbri della miniera possono parlare. Sigilli i suoi occhi, naso e bocca. Mostrimi il miei propri. Mostrimi Harry Potter.** (Italian) - "Show me that mine eyes may see. Show me that mine ears may hear. Show me that mine tongue may taste. Show me that mine lips may speak. Seal his eyes, nose, and mouth. Show me my own. Show me Harry Potter." 


	2. I'm Gonna Buy You a Looking Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **_And If that Diamond Ring Turns Brass_  
>  ~ Broken Lullabies Arch; Line C ~**  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 03.08 – 06.15.2003  
> _____________________________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  **Warnings:** HARD R Rating. AU, slash, angst, language, and Sev being generally creepy. What else do I write about? No sex, though. ;-) Footnotes and definitions are at the end of each chapter. Also, I don’t speak Italian. God bless translations sites. If YOU speak Italian, please overlook my no doubt glaring and painful errors. ^^;;; Poor Sev . . .
> 
>  **Continuity:** This is the 3rd in the Broken Lullabies Arch and occurs after _Hush, Little Baby_ and _Don’t Say A Word_. 
> 
> **Notes:** Special thanks you’s are extended to Apapazukamori for beta-ing.   
> **  
> Do not steal from me.  
> **  
>  **Don’t flame me.** By fic number three that gets a bit redundant, don’t you think?  
> 

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

**Stanza Two:  
I’m Gonna Buy You a Looking Glass**

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
 ** _  
“In black skies a storm is streaming,  
Snowy whirlwind rude and wild,  
Like a savage beast now screaming,  
Now lamenting like a child.  
Let us drink, my friend, unshrinking  
Helper in young manhood’s pain.  
Where’s the cup? Grief calls for drinking!  
Hearts will now be glad again!”  
_**~ Winter Evening  
Alexander Pushkin

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


_P_ otions’ Class. 

Do you and your silly friends know that I hate it even more than you do? Well . . . Perhaps not more. I, after all, control what goes on in this room. You do not. I imagine that I’ll take a great deal of pleasure in reminding you of that fact.

It’s no less than you deserve really. Two weeks later and I still have a crick in my neck from sleeping on the dungeon floor. Not the most pleasant way to wake up in the morning. That, and the Ravenclaws have all been glaring at me for eleven days straight. Normally I have no problem with Flitwick’s house; they’re quiet, studious, dignified, and sensible. _I_ was almost a Ravenclaw, but for my pride, ambition, and cynicism. And, of course, my bloodline. I have far, far too much of my father in me for my liking. _He_ was the very epitome of Bastard—I am merely a sad reflection of the heights to which he aspired.

But that girl? Cho Chang? What on earth do you see in her? She’s plain. Ordinary. Utterly unimposing and bland. The word “mudblood” flickers just at the edges of my conscious mind and I shake my head with a sneer. She’s . . . not at all you. And as I seem to recall, she was dating Diggory during the Tournament, anyway, so I doubt that your failure to save her snog-toy has won you much of her favor.

She’s no reason to fancy you any way. You’re only a skinny little boy.

Flitwick was still furious with me for taking 55 points from his house. It’s not my fault that the silly girl’s cauldron exploded. . . . She should have read the instructions from the book and paid more attention to the lecture. I’m fairly positive I said rosewater _before_ mushrooms.

And I don’t usually make mistakes—not in potions.

“All right there, Harry!”

And Creevey. Merlin deliver me from my just comeuppance in the form of these loud, boorish children. It’s a wonder that you haven’t killed that boy yet. And the leech masquerading as his sibling is no better than he is.

I don’t hear your reply, but you and the other two members of Minerva’s Golden Trio scramble into the room just as the tone chimes. I stalk to the front of my desk, looking and feeling appropriately intimidating, and sneer as the three of you stumble gracelessly to your seats. 

“So kind of the _famous_ Harry Potter and his entourage to _grace_ us with their coveted presences.” If I had put any more contempt into my voice, I could have very well hurt myself.

You cringe and I suddenly feel immensely better. “5 points each from Gryffindor.” In fact, I feel almost gleeful.

A telltale muscle twitches in your cheek and hateful green eyes glare at me as my Slytherins titter in amusement. I flick my little Death Eaters in training a tiny, indulgent smile, trying desperately to let none of the coldness I feel for them into my eyes. Draco in particular looks amused and my smile becomes bit more genuine. I fear the day he accepts the mark. I actually care for the boy and have no desire to see him kiss the Dark Lord’s hem. He deserves a better fate than that. I only hope that, when the time comes, mine is the hand that kills him—it pains me to think of that sheltered child in the loving embrace of Ministry Aurors. 

My eyes flicker back to the Gryffindors, all of whom seem ready to pounce and tear me limb from limb, and I sneer at them maliciously. If I can teach some of Minerva’s cubs to grow teeth, all the better when they get to the real world and discover what all Slytherins and most Ravenclaws understand the moment the Sorting Hat is dropped over their heads—every House has a dark side, even the precious, beloved Gryffindors. _Especially_  
the precious, beloved Gryffindors.

You’re glaring at me and I resist the urge to take points on principle, turning instead to my desk and retrieving a stack of papers. “You all have a quiz,” I bark, enjoying the looks of horror spreading over the faces of you housemates. Longbottom looks as though he should be excused to the hospital wing and Granger has just turned white beneath her wild hair. No doubt mourning the fact that she couldn’t rope you and the Weasely into a twelve hour study session. It never fails to amaze me that the girl the Hufflepuffs have taken to calling the Conscience of Gryffindor was not sorted into Ravenclaw. Though, as my own conscience seems to have generously taken a hiatus, I really doubt I should care what you Gryffindors should do with yours.

I hand out the papers, feeling more and more pleased with myself by the second. I’ve noticed that my mood improves in direct proportion with the number of points Gryffindor loses. Fascinating. I highly doubt that Minerva would approve an official experiment, though—not even for the sake of my little happiness. Still, high by mind fuck . . . Exquisite.

I can almost hear your hot accusation of sadism. Undoubtedly exquisite. God bless you if only for rekindling my love of teaching, child.

I return to my desk and sit down in front of a stack of seventh year essays to wait you all out. I frown slightly when I see the Granger pat you on the shoulder as you gaze despondently at your six-foot scroll of essay quiz. Weasely and one of the other boys shoots you a look of sad empathy. I shrug it off and take my irritation out on some poor Hufflepuff’s essay, feeling decidedly liberal with my red ink. I’ll have to buy a new inkwell soon.

That and more wine. One must never underestimate the curative effects of alcohol. Congratulations. You and your peers have driven me to drinking, boy. Mostly you.

It sickens me the way they fawn over you, though. It sickens me more the way you soak it up like a sun-deprived flower. Do you even know that all these little children who worship you, all their asinine parents and endless relations, are all plotting your death? All hiding behind the tremulous shield of your weak, delicately sloped shoulders? Do you remember how they all turned against you and will turn again at a moment’s notice? Your friends, your  
fans, your silly crush . . . They will all betray you. They will rip you open and offer you up for  
the slaughter the moment their own inane lives are jeopardized.

Don’t think that they love you. Don’t think that they need you. They need the perfection that they project onto you. They need the illusion of the strength that they’ve imposed on you. And they will kill you one day. One day you will fail in your perfection and reveal the tragic, flawed human that you are. One day you won’t be able to save the day.

And they will never forgive you for that.

They all call me a monster, yet they’re the ones hiding behind the sparse cover of your thin frame. They call me cruel because I expose your humanity, drag it out and provoke that hot, dangerous Potter temper that your father hid so well, but you have yet to master. You wear your heart on your sleeve and it’s beautiful and public when it bleeds. How do you bear being so steeped in blood?

I close my eyes at night and I see it sweating out of you in rivers and the remembered smell of sex, fire, and something broken assault me. I relive the moment in my mind. Do you know you’ve stolen my dreams from me? Every texture, every taste, every gasp, the feeling of all those hungry eyes is locked within my memory. I’ve considered Obliviating myself, but the glowing memory of tear-magnified eyes stays my hand when I wake up sticky and gasping in the lonely night.

I wonder . . . when I spilled my seed into you, what else did you take from me? When I seized that silly innocence from you and held you down with rough, experienced hands, what did I really take from you?

I see you wandering the halls at night and I follow a corridor behind, wanting to catch you in the darkness and terrified of what I may do if I ever manage it. So I don’t.

For all my ideals, does that make me a coward? Like them? Like the pale gallery of fools who huddle behind you and expect you to clean up their mess? Is my silence in your shadow not just as bad? My . . . worship?

No. Because I expect nothing in return. I’ve taken too much already and even the borrowed innocence that Albus has so graciously provided you with is not enough to burn the art I’ve wrought upon you from my memory.

So permit me my quiet revelry at everyone else’s expense. Consider it our private joke, so strong a secret that even you don’t know it. I doubt that Albus would be amused. But in his own way, he’s as much a coward as they are.

You should be grateful, boy. I am not a coward. I am the only shadow in your life that isn’t dragging you down.

The chime rings and I jump slightly, startled. How long was I lost in my ruminations? I missed the opportunity to stalk about the room and scowl. 

“Hand your papers in and then get out of my sight. You will receive your failures next period. Anything less than 35% will be rewarded with an evening with Filch.”

Longbottom looks close to tears and for an instant I almost pity for him. Then I remember that stupid stuffed vulture hat that Albus insists upon bestowing me with every Christmas and I take back the sentiment. And contently wish the little bastard a fine time in hell with Dumbledore’s pet werewolf. The ones I pity are his parents—a brilliant, gorgeous witch and a strong, powerful wizard both reduced to drooling idiots diapered in their own refuse. The boy is an insult to the whole damn family. What on earth did the Hat ever see in him in the first place?

You place your test on my desk with a controlled motion, but I can almost see the urge to ball it up and throw it at me. I almost wish that you would. I deserve your violence. But you simply lay it down and walk away. Draco hurries after you and I wonder what insult he’s had stewing in that cunning little brain of his. Not that it matters. It will be forgotten and replaced by a new one tomorrow.

I watch the last of your peers (I almost choke on the thought; executioners is more accurate) file after you in silence and remain staring at the closed door long after you’ve gone. It’s several minutes before I realize that I’m holding your test and tapping it absently against my mouth. My lips tingle slightly. The paper slides from my hands to land quietly on the desk. My long fingers skate over your inadequate writing almost timidly, as though touching the words were the same as touching you. The smile on my lips now is a bit broader. Draco’s smile for Draco and your smile for you. Each different. 

I’m too damn old to wax philosophical.

I stand and grab the papers, suddenly longing for red wine and a hot bath followed by an evening of brewing Potions. . . . . I wonder what you would taste like drunk? Sweet, I imagine. With a bite. It’s Friday—Albus will be kind enough to forgive my absence in the Great Hall tonight. Besides, he wants those potions ready for Black’s blood tomorrow morning. I can’t restrain the sneer that the thought evokes.

“I don’t know, Harry.” I stop dead in the hall and lean against the wall out of sight. It’s Weasely. 

“I think Ron’s right, Harry.” Granger. “You have to admit. It’s odd.”

I cock my head to the side as your petulant tones sound around the corner. “Look, guys, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“But he’s always . . . _**staring**_ at you. It’s damned creepy! What’s that greasy git trying to pull, anyway? He spent half the test glaring at you like he wanted to tear your face off.”

Not your face; I’m rather fond of that. Just your clothes. Harry Potter—the stuff wet dreams are made of. My desire to ensure that the Weasely family ceases to procreate has just moved up from distant wish to attainable goal. 

You start to say something, but Granger interrupts you. It’s amazing you ever get a word in edge-wise between those two. “It’s not just in class. Have you seen him in the Great Hall lately? He’s eaten more meals there this term than he did all of last year. And he always seems to be wherever you go, Harry. How many times have you turned around and walked right into him? It’s . . .” a dozen adjectives flicker through my mind, but she settles on the word, “odd.”

Odd. Somehow that word was not among my choices.

You sigh and my lips part as though by hearing the sound, I could inhale you. I wonder absently if I should jump out and take points, but I’m curious as to what you have to say.

“It’s probably nothing. Maybe Dumbledore told him to keep an eye on me. You know half the teachers in school have been staring at me. Merlin, I can barely go to the loo without an escort. Besides, Snape would never hurt me. He may not like me, but he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.” I can’t imagine the look on their faces as you continue—nor the look on mine, for that matter. “You know what he’s like. It’s just Snape being Snape.”

Weasely makes a noise of disgust. “I don’t know how you can trust that greasy bastard so much!”

Taking points just graduated to strangling the Weasely. It would be infinitely more satisfying. It’s been years since I’ve killed someone.

“I just do, Ron!” Ooooh. Anger. For me? I don’t know whether to be amused or appalled. “Dumbledore trusts him and that’s good enough for me—” further proof of your stupidity, “—so it should be good enough for you.”

“He works for You-Know-Who!”

Nice, Weasel. Shall we make an announcement in the Great Hall next? Strangulation is now torture. Slow. With a nice Heretic’s Fork. Or an Inquisitional Chair. Psychological pain is astoundingly underrated. I wonder if Filch would mind if I appropriated some of those chains he keeps.

“He _used_ to worked for Voldemort! And stop flinching every time I say that! Honestly, you’re worse than Fudge! _Vol-de-mort!_ It’s only a name!”

One of your cronies says something that I don’t hear and you make a sound of disgust in your throat. “Well it shouldn’t matter! _I’m_ the one who has to face him! _I’m_ the one who has to—” 

You stop abruptly and I realize that you’re far, far more observant than I thought.

“It shouldn’t matter,” you murmur after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “It’s my choice who I trust and who I don’t. It doesn’t matter.”

Something like pity wells up inside me and I crush it down. You don’t need pity. You have worlds of pity. I won’t ever pity you. Never.

You sound like you need a drink. I need a drink. And a bath. And a long vacation away from green eyes and kiss-bruised pink lips. I wonder how much butterbeer it takes to intoxicate a human?

I will definitely be buying more wine soon.

The three of you walk away, heavy uncomfortable silence between you. I wonder if it’s hard on them, being so close to the Boy-Who-Lived. But then it occurs to me that you’re more correct than you know. It doesn’t matter.

They are children and cowards. I am not.

I am everything but.

The thought is small comfort, though, as I remember your tiny frame standing before the Dark Lord. How do you survive it every year?

And what happens if you don’t next time?

. . . 

I need a drink.

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  



	3. And If That Diamond Ring Turns Brass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_  
> And If that Diamond Ring Turns Brass  
> _ ~ Broken Lullabies Arch; Line C ~**  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 03.08 - 06.15.2003  
> _______________________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  **Warnings:** HARD R Rating. AU, slash, angst, language, and Sev being generally creepy. What else do I write about? No sex, though. ;-) Footnotes and definitions are at the end of each chapter. Also, I don't speak Italian. God bless translations sites. If YOU speak Italian, please overlook my no doubt glaring and painful errors. ^^;;; Poor Sev . . .
> 
>  **Continuity:** This is the 3rd in the Broken Lullabies Arch and occurs after _Hush, Little Baby_ and _Don't Say A Word_. 
> 
> **Notes:** _If you've been emailing me, then please know that while I **have** received your messages, I can't reply because my family uses a VERY proprietary ISP._ (Damn Juno! ;_; )  
>  Because of that, chapters 3 and 4 of "Diamond Ring" are completely un-betaed. (*flees from irate English professors!!*)
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
> **Don't flame me.** By fic number three that gets a bit redundant, don't you think? But PLEASE REVIEW! ^_^

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

**Stanza Three  
And If That Diamond Ring Turns Brass**

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
 ** _  
"And the more I see  
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel  
Torment within me, as from a hateful siege  
Of contraries; all good to me becomes  
Bane, and in Heav�n much worse would be my state."_  
Paradise Lost; Book IX, 119 - 123  
\- John Milton**

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


_B_ lack frowns at me. Looking as though he knows something. I suddenly have the perverse urge to start capering around and chanting, _"You don't know what I did! You don't know what I did!"_ and I choke on a snicker, turning it into a very fake cough. He scowls and I barely resist the urge to smirk at him. The scowl turns into a full-blown glare. I remain unimpressed. 

From his perch on my worktable, Lupin watches our silent exchange with amusement. I send a dark sneer the werewolf's way. Frightening as the thought is, the two of them have remarkably good chemistry together, each balancing out the other's flaws. Still, being locked in a room alone with a murdering psychotic and an unbalanced werewolf, half moon or not, is not how I would prefer to spend my Saturday evenings.

I turn, self-consciously feeling my spine stiffen on reflex, and scowl at a wall of shelves. A low, dull throbbing has formed behind my eyes. I've felt odd lately--off center. Wispy, see-through, and thin. I can't quite place my finger on what's wrong, though. And I've been getting headaches almost hourly. 

Whenever I think of _you_ , actually.

I close my eyes against the pain and pinched the bridge of my nose in consternation as the wolf begins to chatter. 

"Thank you for the Wolfsbane, Severus."

I inwardly flinch at his familiarity, despite the fact that I should be used to it by now. He's always been sickeningly polite to me since . . . That Night. I've always chalked it up to guilt and ignored it.

Sometimes I wonder if he really knows what that potion really does to him--if he understands the price he's paying and has yet to pay for a few hours of sanity . . . I know that Black doesn't. If he did, he'd have my head for systematically poisoning the furbag. But I have an excuse. The wolf asks for it. Literally.

I'm beginning to notice a disturbing trend in that what I used to refer to as justifications have now become "excuses." Not that it really matters to anyone but me.

"Severus?"

I do, however, wonder what you would say. Should it upset me that you have become the standard by which I now measure myself? Every thought and action held up to your bright light? 

_And as he faced the sun he cast no sha--_

"Severus?!"

I jump, reflexively jerking my arm away from the unfamiliar touch. The scent of earth and shadows and nighttime is heavy next to me and I glare at Lupin for daring to invade my kinosphere. Intrusive, classmate-attacking bastard.

Amber-brown eyes wrinkle in what can only be worry as I take another few steps back, desperate to put more space between myself and his airy, cloying scent. He smells nothing like you.

"Are you alright, Severus?"

Of course I am. My head hurts fit to burst, but I'm fine. I'm always fine. Why should he  
care anyway? Does it matter if I'm not fine? No. Nothing will change.

A blinding shaft of pain seems to slice my head in two and my right hand clenches into a fist before I can stop myself. 

"You blanked out for a moment there."

Did I? I turn away and bite the tip of my tongue for a moment. "Kindly refrain from touching me until you've gotten your _pet_ properly flea-dipped, Lupin." My tone makes up for the weakness of the insult.

I feel more than hear his sigh of resignation. Good. Nosey lycanthrope. 

Black growls audibly, reminding me of what I was looking for. A knife. Right. Focus, Snape.

"Let him alone, Remy. It's just Snape being Snape."

Black must have taken lessons on snark in Azkaban. Not that he's actually managed to insult me. Or perhaps he simply never had the brain capacity to manage a scathing tone before. No doubt he was too busy trying to kill his peers and then blame it on his friends.

Strange. When he's not around I almost manage to forget the depth of loathing I have for the mutt. How can you bear to be near him?

Merlin, I miss you.

"Siri, be nice." Lupin manages to sound like a mother scolding a child. "Severus is very kind to spend so much of his time on these potions for us."

Oh, yes. Look at me. I exude the sentiments of peace on earth and goodwill towards men. It absolutely spews from my pores.

Black opens his mouth again and I can literally feel the intellectual level in the room teeter precariously before slowly beginning to fall . . . "Re--"

And he mercifully shuts up as someone knocks on the door. A light, tentative knock. So soft. Only one person would sound like that.

"What?!" I bark, almost daring to hope that it's not you. Surely, Albus didn't--

But then the door opens and Albus obviously _did_ because there you are: eyes seemingly a bit shuttered behind those ridiculous spectacles that make them look so unnaturally large and pale face pinched slightly into an expression of wary caution. Your eyes flicker to me for a moment and you look ready to retreat as I level a ferocious scowl in your direction.

But you don't, instead choosing to inch into my labs a bit more. The fireworks display of pain behind my eyes fades to strobe light intensity. Two points to Gryffindor for sheer stupidity. "Excuse me, sir--"

"Harry!"

And then Black bounds over to the door and seizes you in what can only be a suffocating embrace. For a moment you look stupidly, endearingly, bewildered and then you grin and hug him back. Your expression makes me shiver.

I wonder what they would do if I simply jumped you right now. Black could very well die of shock, but Lupin would either kill me, leave, or watch. I can never be sure with him--he's more unpredictable than a pregnant woman, especially when the moon is waxing. He always manages to put up a normal front for you, though. More of your special magic, I suppose. He's better now that Black's back. It makes me wonder how much of his lunacy was the wolf and how much was the strain of being so alone for so long. Yes, he's much, much, much better now that Black is back. Almost like a human. Somehow, that makes me feel . . . pleased.

No one should be left alone like he was. I hate him for what's happened, but no one should be left alone like that. Not even him. But I still wish that Black were rotting in Azkaban with a Dementor sucking on his soul like a lollipop. 

Then he wouldn't be touching you.

No one should ever touch you.

Eight to one says Lupin would kill me, if only to avenge his mate. Not worth the gamble.

You pull away from Black and I'm suddenly aware of the agonizing throbbing of my heart. You're smiling at him. Him. It's physically painful. I want to be the one to make you smile like that. I want that smile to be only mine and mine alone. 

_Mine._

"Touching as this moment may be--" I feel a surge of triumph as you jump away from him, frightened by my snarl-- "I have actual _work_ to do--a concept which most likely eludes the lot of you . . . But then again . . . not all of us can be intransigent convicts leeching off of the pity of others."

Black turns white and then a dark red and takes a menacing step towards me. Away  
from you. Good. Get away from him, Black. 

He shouldn't be near you. Not ever. He can't be trusted.

Lupin wisely steps between us as I hold my ground. It's just as well--it wouldn't do for you to get the worthless fool back just to have me splatter him all over my beautiful dungeons. Not at all. I'm a deadly duelist--one of the very best--and they both know it. You're glaring at me now, deliciously large green eyes hard and frosty with anger. You're magnificent when you're angry. I wonder if you'd taste different angry . . .

I'm suddenly thankful for large, billowing robes. Although if Lupin pays attention, he could catch on. Not that it would mean anything.

Knife. Right. I'm not at all in top form. Once again, your fault.

I glare Black into what passes for submission for him and then turn to retrieve the knife I need. It's a virgin blade, never before used, to ensure the purity of the blood. Metal can hold onto a magical essence for years, especially with a substance as potent as human blood. My hand closes over the black handle as Black begins to question you incessantly about things that aren't important. I still listen keenly to your responses.

Just once I'd like to say, "How was your day, Harry?"

And then you'd say, "Oh, it was great!" and then drone on about something puerile until you reached the point where you'd inevitably say, "And how was your day, Severus?" Or maybe "How's that potion you're working on? Did you fix the consistency problem?" And I'd answer you with something close to a smile and it would all be terribly domestic and meaningless, but pleasant nonetheless.

I grip the handle of the knife so tightly it hurts. My robes swirl comfortingly about my ankles as I turn to where the three of you are clustered and looking so sickeningly . . . content and glide over with my best stalk, the knife held in my hand as though it were a wand. My voice is brittle as frozen glass. 

"Though _you_ ," I let my glare rest on you for a moment longer than it really should, "may feel the need to waste absolutely every second of your waking hours, I do not!" You wilt noticeably and slump slightly against Black. I feel my hatred of the man quadruples immediately. 

You'd never lean on me that way.

And I hope you never do. I don't know if I could handle that.

I hate you. I hate Black because you love him. I hate Lupin because you trust him. But most of all, I hate you for making me want you to love and trust me. For sinking into my very fucking _skin_.

I hate you. And I think I love you.

I'm obsessed. I don't know what to do.

"Lupin!" Giving orders seems to help. "Hand me that bowl," I growl, gesturing vaguely at the wooden bowl with Baby's Breath in it on my worktable. 

He obligingly moves out of the way to retrieve it as I stalk over to his mate, my movements making it very clear that if you don't move I will have little problem with trampling you. You dart out of my way, moving so that you're almost hidden behind Black, tousled head peaking out from behind the other man's sleeve. 

Godson hiding bastard.

I unceremoniously grab his left hand in mine and jerk it up to inspect the palm. The skin of his hands is rough and worn, indicative of a hard life. I don't particularly know how to feel about that so I ignore it. Lupin holds the bowl beneath Black's hand without being told to do so and I feel a flicker of gratitude. He must be an excellent little housewife. 

. . . 

That thought is suitably disturbing to make me forget the warm feeling of your curious eyes locked on me as I carefully draw the knife from the base of your dogfather's palm to the end of his middle finger. Blood immediately fills the more-than-shallow cut and I watch the beautiful crimson rise for a moment before quickly flipping the hand over and tilting it down slightly. I holding it steady to bleed into the bowl. The Baby's Breath seems to melt as the first drops of blood soak into its tiny white petals. The flower will help the blood maintain its potency for several hours and strengthen the Subringor and Verus Vultus by a factor of at least ten.

To his credit, Black remains perfectly still and silent as his life's blood, heavy with magic and vibrant with his power, drips steadily into the bowl. You fidget behind him, eyes still locked on me for reasons I cannot, and do not want to, begin to fathom. Lupin is watching you and occasionally his eyes flicker to me, frowning as though he'd just bitten into a strange fruit and he couldn't decide whether to swallow or spit it out and go scrub his teeth. Does he know?

Does some bit of your scent still linger on my skin, in my hair?

The idea is frighteningly appealing.

You let out a soft, pretty sigh when I flip the mutt's hand back over and Lupin once again obliges me by tapping it with his wand and muttering a light healing spell. The abused skin seals up and I shudder slightly, recalling something vague and distant that my memory can't quite seem to hold onto. I feel a sudden need to bathe. Black's skin feels nothing like yours. I don't want to touch it again. 

I release him abruptly, rubbing my palms fastidiously against my robes. I feel dirty. 

So dirty.

Lupin watches me with uncomfortably perceptive eyes for a moment before handing me the bowl. I resist the urge to hex him for no apparent reason.

Damn amiable wolf.

"When will it be ready?" he asks as I snatch the blood from him and sweep over to my worktable.

"Tomorrow." Now go away and leave me to my pain and my solitude.

Please.

"We'll stop by then, alright?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Lupin," I snap with a wave, making a show of appearing to be extremely busy. "Now take your reunion away and leave me in peace."

I don't turn around to see his face, but I can feel his eyes boring into my back like fire. Not brown human eyes. Hot Gold and Amber. The wolf's eyes. I wonder at what he sees. 

But he says nothing and I hear the door open and Black's heavy combat boots stomping out of the room, followed by Lupin's lighter footfalls.

And then there was one. You. Always, always my you. "Goodbye, Professor."

I stiffen, wondering what the hell that's supposed to mean, before cursing myself for a paranoid old fool. It means nothing. Nothing means anything anymore.

I curse myself again as you leave, already keenly aware of your absence. I miss you. My headache rages and I miss you. It frightens me.

And as he faced the sun he cast no shadow.

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  



	4. And If That Looking Glass Gets Broke

**Stanza Four:  
And If That Looking Glass Gets Broke**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

_" 'Now you're free of illusions,'  
Jack said, pointing to my wasted seed upon the air.  
'How does it feel to be free of one's illusions?'  
And I looked up through a pain so intense  
that the air seemed to roar with the clanging of metal, hearing,  
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE OF ILLUSION . . .  
And now I answered, 'Painful and empty,'  
as I saw a glittering butterfly circle the air three times over my  
blood red parts, up there beneath the bridge's high arch.  
'But look,' I said, pointing.  
And they looked and laughed and,  
suddenly seeing their satisfied faces and understanding,  
I gave Bledsoe a laugh, startling them.  
And Jack came forward, curious.  
'Why do you laugh,' he said.  
'Because at a price I now see that which I couldn't,' I said."_

Invisible Man  
\- Ralph Ellison

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

_T_ he dream comes to me slowly, all darkness and vivid tastes and colors—knife sharp. I am not myself—I am free, outside of my body. The air is cold and sweet with sex. I can see myself, but I don’t know how I know it’s me. I don’t look like I think I do. My hair's wild and my expression is torn somewhere between bliss and pain. It’s as though I’m a stranger watching someone else inside me.

You’re on my lap, legs locked around me and leaning back every so slightly for the angle, rosy lips parted, head tossed back, hair standing wildly on end as you ride me hard. A delicate bead of sweat slips down the long curve of your arching spine. We’re both naked and blindfolded.

The clothe over our eyes is a dark, dark black—silk. It’s stretched tight and strains the skin over our cheekbones. Our chests meet and part in a frenzied rhythm as soft animalistic noises fall from our open mouth, but there’s no sound in my dreams. All is silent. Occasionally our lips mesh in frantic, inadequate kisses that seem to slowly drain more and more energy from me.

It’s hot and tight inside you and my movements have a clumsy, adolescent desperation to them that I’ve never before known. Your fingernails claw at my back, ripping great long gashes into my too-pale skin in your enthusiasm. Blood coats us, spreads around us and slicks down our already sweat-soaked bodies. I try to say your name, to beg you to stop or demand what you’re doing, but you don’t listen. Blood rains down on black sheets and our panted breath is visible on the crisp, cool air.

Your nails rip at me, sinking deeper in every time as you push yourself harder down on me. Your fingers sink in up to the second joint. Then up to the knuckle. I can feel them slide inside me between my ribs even as I drive further into you helplessly. Your scar blazes brilliant Avada Kadavra green, burning me. Long, sharp fingers drive into my lungs from the back and curl under, gripping at the back of my rib cage. You arch your back, mouth open wide, and pull—tearing me inside out.

I cannot scream.

Blood pours out of me as you pull my spine out and discard it somewhere that I cannot see. Something trails out behind me from the inside. It feels like a string leading from the core of me to the cold outside to which I’m now exposed. Your vicious fingers grip it and tear out whatever is left inside, slim hips still maintaining their perfect, impossible rhythm. The pain is a strange release.

The chasm of my back closes seamlessly, like melted wax sealing together and solidifying. Tears stream down my face and you kiss me tenderly as I mouth your name. You hold me up with one hand and gently stroke my cheek with the other. Comfortingly. Lovingly.

You continue thrusting down on me and I want release so badly that my lips move in needy, humiliating pleas. The light from your scar seeps through the clothe over my eyes and blinds me.

And then you’re sinking into me. Literally. Your legs sink into me first, slowly merging with my body so gradually, so perfectly, that I can’t tell when you started. I try to fight, but your arms are around me and hold mine tight to my sides. Your body clenches tight around my arousal and then I can suddenly feel you merging with me—grinding pelvises sinking into one another, rising a bit less with every thrust. My skin feels hot and tight, dry and stretched too far over my bones where we’ve merged and I try to look down, but all I can see is the terribly smooth expanse of flesh where our torsos have become one. And then our chests. And then—

You kiss me—your tongue thrusting into my mouth like a rusted razor. I taste blood. And then your face sinks slowly into mine. I can feel my bones shifting and merging with yours, the joining devouring that terrible light from your scar. It’s as though a thousand hot needles are being shoved into me and filling up the soothing hollow you left only moments ago.

And we are one.

My arms are wrapped around me now that you’re gone. My hips buck uselessly in the air in a futile attempt to maintain the pace you set, but you’re no longer on top of me. You’re inside of me. I can feel you twitching and writhing at my center—an enormous spider, eight hairy legs straining against the fragile walls of my belly, pincers clicking hungrily, the sound muffled by my body.

I reach down to stroke myself, to seek some sort of completion, but my hand finds nothing. I look down, knowing for a terrifying moment what I’ll see, and I See Nothing. Nothing. The flesh where my sex, my male center, should rise out of my body is utterly smooth and hairless. Gone. Just like you.

The hand falls and cups the smooth curve of flesh between my legs in a desperate attempt to drive myself to release, but I can’t. There is no release for me. There is no peace. You twitch and chitter inside me and I am alone.

I fall backwards on the black silk, rotting gore, and blood and I scream.

And then I wake.

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


Monday evening. Dinner. I hate Mondays. Not as much as I hate your mutts, though.

Black and Lupin. My lip twitches towards its requisite sneer. They’re gone now, too. And though I cursed them when they were here, I curse them more now that they’re gone. All the light—that false light Albus and I forced down your throat—seems to have dimmed painfully. The loss makes my mood even darker than what passes as normal for me. I wish you’d smile.

I never knew how very much I needed that smile. If only to let me know that you’re okay.

I sigh and my eyes flicker from you to my stone-cold teacup, falsely fascinated by watching my fingers dance lightly over the ceramic rim. I haven’t been much in the mood for tea lately. My nails are dark and have what appear to be shavings of lugworm skin beneath them and the tips of my fingers are stained with something golden brown that smells faintly of nutmeg and thyme. It turns my skin an odd, sunburnt shade I’ve never seen before. One discolored fingertip slips into the teacup and I stare at it idly for a moment before muttering a Heating Charm. The temperature of the liquid slowly rises until steam begins to emerge from the once-cold cup. I don’t remove my finger until it begins to boil slightly, wanting—needing—to feel the pain. I know it should hurt, but it doesn’t. Not enough.

The latest in a long line of inept (if not outright dangerous) Defense Against the Dark Arts professors looks over at me curiously and I gaze back into his eyes expressionlessly. He looks away quickly.

On my other side Sprout is chattering with Minerva about Quidditch, or maybe just brooms in general (although the idea of the admittedly rotund Hufflepuff Head on a broom makes even me want to laugh) and my head aches horribly. My eyes are dry and scratchy and I keep feeling Albus casting furtive glances my way, blue eyes slightly dimmed in worry.

_Stop looking at me, Albus._

My head hurts.

I want to go take a bath.

. . . Sink under the water, exhale, inhale, and not come back up. I did that once when I first started teaching. Albus found me first, though; he was quite put out with me at the time. Of course, liberal amounts of cognac and absinthe helped my state of mind at the time. I’ve never had the combination since.

Instead I run my finger along the rim of my teacup again, wishing that either the cup was you, or the tea was Port. Or you full of Port.

Mmmmm . . .

Even better.

My head hurts.

“Severus, are you alright?”

Yes, Minerva? “Yes, Minerva.”

Ever since I came to teach, she’s always been like a mother to me—taking me under her Gryffindor wing and keeping an eye on me. Sometimes I appreciate it more than I will ever be able to express. Other times it makes me want to kill her. Or myself. I sometimes have trouble distinguishing between myself and other people.

It’s so much easier to hurt everyone equally.

You see? I’m fairer than you think.

The Gryffindor table bursts into raucous laughter over something—most likely something I’d take points off for—and I wince, my finger slipping into the hot tea again. And then I hear that odd tone that emerges only from your mouth.

Your mouth.

Merlin.

My head snaps up and my eyes latch onto you. The rest of the room swims sickeningly, but you’re in perfect, crystal focus. Head ducked slightly, face buried in your little hands as you laugh mindlessly at something. You’re so immature.

There’s an odd rushing sound in my ears and my hand slips, overturning the teacup. The white tablecloth turns an odd brown-ish red as the liquid spreads. The inept Defense teacher swears, but all I can focus on is you . . .

You.

It’s different this time, as though I’m seeing something new. Something I saw and didn’t see. It’s strange and confusing and makes me oddly agitated somewhere beneath the blinding pounding behind my eyes. I feel like there’s a House Elf symphony in my head.

You’ve stopped laughing.

My hands are shaking.

What is it I see . . .?

Pretty green eyes. Raven hair. Quirky little mouth barred behind soft, luscious pink lips. Delicate cheekbones that are slowly becoming striking. Little hands with blunt, overworked fingers and tiny cresset nails. Limbs that are too long for you, but still small. You’ll never be a big man. You’ll never clear 2 meters. You’re too small. Too . . .

. . .

Too . . .

(My head hurts.)

. . .

(And I don’t want to see this.)

. . .

But it’s right there.

You’re . . . young . . .

_Young._

Not young in that way that seems to make me want to throw you on the floor lately, . . . just . . . small. And there’s something about that that disturbs me and I stare at you, knowing that you’re aware of it and uncomfortable, but I also know that this is too important. There’s something here, something that I _have to see_. But I can’t.

And then the thought hits me with such force that I almost cry out. Immature. Of course. You’re a child. A child. You’re a _child_.

I knew that. I know I did. But . . . somehow it never really occurred to me.

And I feel ill.

Merlin.

A child.

A child in my arms.

A child beneath me.

A _**student**_ beneath me . . .

And that strange, mercilessly hitherto unknown connection between fucking Harry Potter and raping one of my students is suddenly made and my stomach heaves.

I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Oh, **God** . . .

What have I done?

And your terrible mouth quirks in a scowl as you glare at me defiantly and I almost retch.

Am I shaking?

What have I done? And why do I want to do it again and again and—

The room is spinning. Everything’s spinning.

I can’t. I can’t. I need to leave this place.

I can’t.

Oh . . . God. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Hard to see. Hard to—

“Severus? Severus, are you all right?”

Oh . . . Oh . . . Shut up, Minerva.

“Severus? Do you want me to get Poppy?”

The room pitches. The floor tilts. When did I stand up? Am I standing up?

“Severus? Are you all right? You look very pale, my boy . . .”

Albus . . . “Albus . . . .” It’s so hard to breathe. Am I having a panic attack?

“Albus . . .” Albus . . . “I . . . need to go . . .”

I seem to be in the habit of fleeing his presence lately.

The castle spins in a kaleidoscope of color and I have the strangest impression that the floor is actually a wall and the walls are somewhere near the ceiling and theturn to my chambersshouldhave been here and it’snotand I can’t think beyond this damn poundinginmyhead and odd little laugh/sobs keep risinginmythroatandwherethehellamIwhycan’tIbreatheIIIIIII

I

.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

I’m sorry.

So sorry.

And then there’s my door and then there’s my sitting room and then there’s my fireplace and then there I am.

There I am.

Alone.

The fire roars next me, blending into the pressure between my ears.

It’s hot.

I don’t feel it.

I don’t feel anything anymore.

But the heat is easy to inhale and the little flecks of light vanish the corner of my eyes as I press my forehead against the warm stone of the floor.

The floor.

Yes.

I’m sitting.

Alone.

How much time has passed? It seems like only moments—I don’t even recall getting here—yet here I am with my legs asleep. Sitting on the floor. It’s hot in here.

I’m cold, though.

So cold.

And dirty.

Of all the things I’ve ever done, this—you—has to be the worst. And the one I regret the least.

_Sicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick . . . ._

How is it possible to want something so much and be simultaneously repulsed by it?

If I were a lesser or a greater man, I think I’d sob. I’d weep and tear at my hair and scream and dash my head against the uncaring damp stones of my dungeons. But I’m not a lesser man, nor a greater one, so I merely huddle on the floor and stare into the flames, longing for a drink, but too hurt to move.

Too . . . much. Everything.

And I suddenly wish that I was a lesser or a greater man, because I can’t stop wanting you. Vile, horrible creature that you are—that I am—I can’t stop. I don’t even think I truly want to. And what would you do if you saw me now, nauseous with self-loathing and hard for want of a little boy?

I loathe you, Harry Potter.

I loathe you for what I am and for what I have become.

I loathe you because your remembered taste is too much and never enough. I loathe you because I can’t dare touch you and I don’t dare leave you alone. I loathe you because I am alone.

I loathe you because, for all my sins, all my depravity, I HAD A LIMIT! I had that line in the sand, that Great Divide between my self and the truly damned. Between my acknowledged wants and the quiet whispers of my subconscious at night. Because . . . because . . . if I had never touched you . . . I would never have known how badly I wanted to—still want to—and I would never have given you, a student, a second thought. And the fault is all my own.

You didn’t want this. Didn’t deserve this. Don’t deserve the burden of my . . . affections.

My god. What have I done to you?

Yes, love. I loathe you . . . even though I can’t really loathe you at all.

And so I loathe myself for all those reasons and more.

So I sit, empty, ill, and dry-eyed in front of the fire, mourning myself. What would you say?

_“It’s just Snape being Snape.”_

Yes, Harry. Lover. Innocent. Child.

I’m just Snape—hook-nosed, unattractive, unfair, greasy, Slytherin-favoring, snarky bastard of a professor.

Severus Snape—monster, Death Eater, murderer, rapist, spy, child molester, liar, traitor, man. Not a great man, not a small one. Just a man—tragically arrogant and foolishly in love. Sickening, empty, impossible love. Just a man who was, until today, all these things and more.

Severus Snape—a man who was, until this moment, everything but a coward.

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


~ Fin

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  



End file.
